


Monster

by LunaStellaCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 14:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11784684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStellaCat/pseuds/LunaStellaCat
Summary: It's sometimes difficult to distinguish between the monster and the man.Written for WindingArrow's Body Positive Challenge.For forever_dreaming





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forever_dreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_dreaming/gifts).



**September, 1981**

People said you died alone. Emmeline argued you came into the world the same way. Well, if a person was so lucky, they came with a friend; her husband had been on this list. She’d made a stupid mistake three days ago and bent down to get something for her small daughter in the town square. Emmeline remembered the blood, the slight panic in her tone when she raised her hand, and she recalled the color draining from Sophie’s face when she, Emmeline, collapsed. 

“Maman.” Sophie had backed into a man in horror. 

“It’s all right. Get help.” Emmeline had slipped in and out of consciousness at this point and lost grip with her surroundings. She hadn't recalled the anyone arriving on the scene, but she glimpsed the hospital ceiling and inhaled some Calming Draught in a gaseous form. It made her drowsy, and she dropped the nozzle. “Something’s wrong. It’s too early.” 

“You’re fine, Madame Prewett,” someone said, racing along the stretcher.

“No. It’s not working.” Emmeline breathed in the gas, listening to the Healer and cried our in pain as they transferred her to a bed. She’d been through this before, of course, but she’d either forgotten the pain, or Emmeline never experienced hurt on this level before. 

“Her husband's on his way,” said someone else, a nearby matron. 

“I haven’t got a husband… he’s dead. What’s happening?” Annoyed they weren’t listening to her, Emmeline found the matron’s soothing shushing taking an opposite effect than the man obviously intended and cursed fluently in both French and English. She faded again, came back, and got knocked out when some Healer coaxed some potion down her throat. 

“She’s over here,” said the matron to an unseen man off to the side sometime later. 

Emmeline opened her arms for a small bundle and thanked a stranger in navy blue robes. She felt no pain, high on a combination of really good concoctions. One of these, she took every hour, a Blood Replenishing Potion, for she’d lost her blood volume. The baby’s facial features looked distorted, elongated, and a strange, scaly birthmark covered the left side of his face. His legs were twisted. The orderly offered to take him, but Emmeline shook her head and started feeding the fussy thing. 

She didn't bother to correct the woman when she said her husband had arrived. Who had even been listed as her emergency contact? When her grandfather discovered she’d hidden the pregnancy, he’d called her a whore and turned her away. Gabriel thought, as most people guessed after doing simple math, Emmeline had sought comfort elsewhere after her husband and her brother-in-law got murdered. 

A thin man red-haired thin walked in. He offered a hand to Sophie. Taking it, Sophie clung to a stuffed animal and shuffled her feet uncomfortably. Emmeline, shocked to see Arthur Weasley, turned from him, to Sophie and back again. Emmeline, though she didn't really know why, shielded the baby. 

“I told them I wasn't your husband, but I don't speak French, and they talk really, really fast.” Arthur shrugged. He pointed at Sophie. “I’m guessing she gave my name. She’s clever.” 

Arthur took Sophie and set her in his lap when he pulled up a chair at her bedside. He took Sophie’s stuffed animal, a clown fish, and handed it back when she started sniffling. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Arthur took the baby when Emmeline stopped feeding. He’d clearly been through this a handful of times because he had seven healthy children and didn't even bat an eye at her figure. He’d left a one month old at home. Arthur went to grab a Healer, but Emmeline waved him down. 

“Not now.” She closed her eyes and waved over a Trainee Healer and a friend who stood nearby in a huddled whispered conversation. She cleared her throat, fixing a dressing gown over her hospital attire. She chose not to speak in French to make them feel out of place. “If you're going to say something, you might as well say it to my face.” 

“Well, no offense, Madame, Monsieur, but it’s a changeling. It won't survive,” said the male matron, the friend. 

Arthur raised his eyebrows, sure he’d misunderstood. He spoke slowly, patiently, as If explaining simple math to a child. One of them reached out for the baby, but Arthur shook his head and pulled the baby closer as the small thing wailed like a banshee. “I want you off her service, please. What’s your name?” 

“It went zis way because it’s unnatural,” pressed the man who introduced himself as Michel. Speaking in heavily accented English, he sounded confident in his assessment and nodded at Sophie. Arthur rocked the baby. “A kindness. You ‘ave a child, really, it’s a kindness towards a changeling.” 

“Why don't we drown it?” Mustering as much harshness as she could in the moment, Emmeline held out her arms for the baby and sighed when Arthur stalked off to the matrons’ station. She addressed this in a false cheerful tone, clearly making these two uncomfortable. Sophie watched the scene unfold like a tennis match. Emmeline switched to French, suggesting they starve it or throw it away. They left, their heads bowed when a senior Healer dismissed them. She went back to English for Arthur’s sake. “Do you have any idea who I am?” 

“Madame Marceau.” The Healer didn't even bother to check the clipboard. A tall man with dark hair and olive skin, he passed as French. 

“A changeling? Do you have any idea how ancient that diagnosis is? By Nicolas Flamel’s will, I am the heir to fortune, a library of texts. Not that I mean to say I’m better than those idiots, but I don't care if this boy gets locked in a chair because he’s mine. Even if he’s a cripple.” Emmeline nodded as he explained a condition called Héctor’s Hand, or dragon scale. 

“He’s got an appetite, or he will once your milk comes in. That’s a good sign.” The Healer smiled, conjured a swivel chair and taking the baby when it finished. He massaged the lower limbs and kept the conversation light as he changed a nappy. 

“Dragon scale. Charlie will like this description,” said Arthur, slightly cautious in case he offended her. Emmeline didn’t fully register the meaning behind this, so Arthur pressed on and apparently did the leg work, thinking for her. “What’s your name? Have you treated this before? You’re not French.” 

“No, I’m not. I’m from outside Carlisle, sir, and it’s Dorian. Dorian Vance.” The Healer took out a notepad, wrote down something, and tore off the sheaf before he placed it on the bedside table. As he examined her, he addressed Arthur’s other questions conversationally. No, he’d never treated dragon scale before in a an infant, although he’d seen it and devoted himself a challenge. Finished, he covered her with a light blanket. Snapping of his gloves, he tossed these in a wastebasket and got to his feet after he checked out the boy. “If you have any questions, you find me. I’ve got this.” 

“But you don’t know,” said Arthur, hesitating as he paced back and forth in the same space. 

“I don’t know, but I will damn well find out,” said Healer Vance, confident and unwavering. He and Emmeline shared a nod and he left after suggesting she think of a name. 

“You can go,” said Emmeline listlessly. Arthur had a whole gang to take care of at the moment, and she didn't need to add to his problems. When she tried to get up and get the baby from the plastic bassinet, Arthur clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook a finger at her before he helped her. 

“Sophie, sit and stay,” he said to the little girl. He did a double take when Sophie swung her feet at the foot of the bed. “She’d make a good dog.” 

“Not a dog,” said Emmeline, complaining as laughter made her hurt. Arthur apologized. She waved Sophie over, and Sophie crawled onto the bed to get a glimpse of the baby. They wouldn’t let her leave the hospital without giving a name; she'd learned this last time, although Fabian had fixed that problem. After an abdominal surgery, she'd be stuck in recovery for a few days. “You can't stay that long, Arthur, and we both know your wife’s not exactly fond of me.” 

“Molly sent me. You should’ve said something.” Arthur shrugged, edging into a defense. He held up a finger because he wasn’t done, but he deserved a moment to get this off his chest without getting interrupted. “You weren’t the only one who lost him. Or Fabian. I had to sit Bill and Charlie down and tell them, and I never want to do that again. Bill cried himself to sleep for days and he asks after Sophie all the time, but what are we supposed to do when you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth?” 

"Arthur.” Emmeline reached over to get a plastic cup off the bedside table and handed it to Sophie. 

“I’m not done.” Arthur usually let Molly speak over him, but he understood how to reign the conversation in, too. How could he not with six sons and a daughter? He ticked things off on his fingers. “Your grandfather sent us owls that neither of us can read but I can take a guess at what they said. I only knew by his signature and words here and there. You might’ve bled to death with this baby. Where would Sophie be? Wake up.” 

“Okay.” Emmeline nodded, a little of this trickling in. 

Arthur nodded, said he was done with his piece, and they debated names. He snorted when she shot down Gabriel, her grandfather’s name. Emmeline let the baby sleep in the bassinet and touched his face. Later that evening, she walked over and let Arthur sleep with Sophie in his arms. A copy of Beedle’s Tales lay on the bedside table. Although she wasn’t supposed to lift the baby, she did so anyway when he started fussing. She shifted to the side when Healer Vance popped his head in at end of shift. 

“Got a name? We can hold you here indefinitely,” said Healer Vance, taking the baby and applying a paste to his face from a blue container. The lotion evaporated instantly. 

He winked at her, showing her he was joking around. and Emmeline, taking everything literally, sat on the edge of the bed. Healer Vance injected a substance into the baby’s hips with a syringe and paced the ward when the baby started screaming. Emmeline watched him speaking to the baby, probably apologizing, and shushing him. 

“We can’t because that’s not legal,” said Healer Vance, coming back and kissing the quieted boy as he set him down in an old-fashioned conjured pram. He ruled his hands together and suggested they take a walk. Emmeline changed into comfortable clothes after taking a shower. They got outside, and the healer pushed the pram along a street. “I’m working with Courtney Beaufort, a renowned specialist outside Romania.” 

“That was fast.” Emmeline crossed her arms protectively around herself. 

“Yeah, well, you are a Marceau, and the hospital staff doesn’t want a pending lawsuit from that brilliant changeling comment.” Healer Vance winced apologetically and jumped ahead not to dwell on the unpleasantries of the day. Emmeline nodded when they got to the hard part. “There are things we can do, but I am not going to lie to you, he’s going to have to work for it.”

"Like?” Emmeline pulled a straight face to hide her panic as he described a procedure of breaking the hipbones and realigning them in the socket. She touched a trembling hand to her lips and started going along the other way; he turned the pram and followed her. “You’re going to break him?” 

“Not yet.” The healer grabbed her by the arm, dropping his tone. “I don’t have children, and I can’t imagine what’s going through your head at the moment.” 

“Is he is pain?” 

"Yes. Manageable pain. This is not a death sentence.” Healer Vance picked up the child and bounced him, warning her he’d be screaming like a banshee all the time. He gave the truth, the entire bit without disguising it, and Emmeline found she appreciated this move. He lightened the mood as they started back the other way after he bought her a coffee. “Look, if I’m stuck with this kid as a patient. I’m not calling him Baby Marceau.” 

Emmeline touched her face, smiling slightly. “I didn't name my daughter.” 

"The precious thing in the tabloids? No?” He grinned when shook her head, already taking a liking to this man's calm, casual demeanor. He snorted, reciting Sophie’s name. She’d been out of the press this past year since her father's death. “Yeah, I pay attention to princess who isn't a princess. A name.” 

“What do you suggest?” Emmeline needed and wanted Gideon by her side. 

“Not my boy. If he’s got to be a cripple, at least he’s a wealthy cripple.” 

“Léo.” Emmeline crafted a name out of nowhere, piecing to together simply to complete a task. “Léo Erik Christopher Marceau. Are we happy? You can leak this to the vultures … the reporters.” 

“Oooh, aren’t I lucky? No, seriously, they'd be coming after you anyway. Your husband handled that well.” The healer found time to keep up with the news. 

Healer Vance pointed out they’d be banging down her door asking for breadcrumbs any day now. Even though she wasn't as famous as her grandmother had been, they’d snapped photographs of her shopping and going out into the city, and she probably didn't notice half the time. As they headed back inside, the healer jerked his head and answered a hidden cameraman with a hand gesture accepted almost anywhere; the paparazzi took the hint, but he got a final shot when Healer Vance placed a hand on Emmeline’s back. 

 

“It must be awful being you. Call me Dorian because we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, Madame Marceau.” Healer Vance, Dorian, stopped by the canteen and ordered lunch from the house-elves behind the counters. Emmeline took over the pram and he placed two laden trays at a table by the window. He took out his notepad, conjured a quill and some ink and set to work. 

 

**June, 1995**

 

After she got off the Order meeting ran late returned from London, Emmeline dumped grocery bags onto the counter and checked the pantry. A set of wooden crutches leaned against the wall, and as she'd suspected when she checked, the pantry had been raided by a thief and the leftover ratatouille hadn't survived a couple of nights. Instead of starting an argument early in the morning after church, she washed the veggies and started over: eggplant, courgettes, yellow squash and got a rough chop from knives as they soared out of the cupboard. She could have used the charmed mandolin, but she’d decided on rustic charm for the summertime stew. 

As she charred an assortment of colorful peppers on the old-fashioned range, Emmeline replayed the conversation she’d had with Molly Weasley through her mind. What did this mean as far as where the two of them stood? Emmeline got her payment for fourteen years of silent treatment and cold shoulder, yet she’d never honestly meant to cut the Weasley family out of her life. When had it been too late to repair that relationship? It got easier to leave alone, she guessed, and she got lost in her life in France. 

Last night, she’d invited Bill over for family lunch. Why had the request spilled from her mouth like word vomit? Well, Bill had been Gideon’s favorite nephew because he was the eldest, Charlie a close second, and Molly had reduced her to nothing with the guilt. 

Cursing, Emmeline sliced her hand open when she tried to handle the hot peppers. Dorian, sitting at the table took her hand, cleaned and bandaged it with a quick spell. The knives washed and dried themselves and then started slicing the baguette Dorian lifted her like a small child, though she weighed considerably more than those, onto the small wooden table, and examined his handiwork. 

“It’s nothing,” she said, gasping in surprise when he took this as an invitation. His hands slipping under her dress, Emmeline hesitated for a few moments, got comfortable, and let him do as he pleased. Over the years, they’d gone from strangers, to friends, to lovers, yet she still denied him her hand in marriage. She kept an eye on the swinging doors and struggled to swing coherent thoughts together. “We can't … you can't be the leader of a research group if…” 

Dorian stopped, laughing a little when she cried out in pleasure, and he got to his feet. “If I’m sleeping with a possible candidate’s mother? Why are we talking about this? I haven’t seen you in two weeks.” 

“No idea. I’m shutting up.” As a negotiator, she made her living talking through problems and making deals, but she liked silence, too. She kissed him again and again and locked her legs around his waist. “Let’s go away for the weekend. Or a couple of days.” 

“Let’s get married in Provence and do this.” Dorian worked in his proposal any way he could and nipped playfully at her neck, saying he liked the brunette look. She’d changed her hair three days ago to try something new. “For your fortieth birthday. He nipped playfully at her neck and changed the rules of the game. It wasn't romantic, but they worked with whatever had they had on their hands. ‘So, who am I to your nephews?” 

“I don’t know.” Emmeline caught her limping son’s form out of the corner of her eye. He pushed his reddish brown hair aside, blurry-eyed from sleep, and shifted his weight on the crutches. As they were the regular crutches, not the forearm ones, he had control of his arms. “Léo? Léo! What the hell?”

“You? It’s my house!” Léo walked in the wall as he closed his eyes and stalked back the way he came. He filled his sister in as they passed in the corridor. “I’m going back to bed because I’ve been scarred for life!” 

“Well, we can cross that awkward moment off the list.” Dorian fixed his clothes and sighed when Emmeline, smoothing out the wrinkles of her blue dress, washed her hands and went back to the food. Dorian, forty-four, grew impatient with not settling down and tying the knot. She'd accepted his proposal and used that ring to toy with him like a car with a mouse. “Why not? You use my name.” 

This was true. Emmeline used this cover as a negotiator and gave this as her name to the Order of the Phoenix. She’d never been a Prewett either, though Gideon has had seemed to understand it was the family roots tying her to a tree. Dorian, Léo, and Sophie thought the Order was just another assignment, and they had no idea what she did whenever she crossed into England. 

“Dorian,” said Emmeline, controlling the stew with her wand as it stirred itself with a wooden spoon. “What does a name matter?" 

“Fine. Drop the name Marceau.” 

“I can't!” Emmeline laughed mirthlessly and slapped a dishtowel on the counter. She sighed when the man grumbled about publicity and status. She told him flat out why not, getting annoyed as she paced on front of the range. “Nicolas Flamel.” 

“What? That's ridiculous!” Dorian didn't buy this for a second. 

“What’s in a name? Everything to a man from the fourteenth century! He chose that surname for my grandfather because he didn't like Bernard!” Emmeline knew her grandparents had married on December 31, 1910, and Gabriel signed over his life to the renowned alchemist in exchange for a nobody as a wife, and he’d fought for Jacqueline every step of the way in return. 

“Oh, so it’s Marceau… you’ve got to be a Marceau to please dead people?” Dorian didn't get it. “That makes no sense.” 

“My children have that name.”

Emmeline put the argument to rest here as Dorian made a salad. She went to answer the door and banged on the bannister. Funnily enough, before he asked for her hand, Dorian understood perfectly well, yet now he dragged his feet. Why was this? She was past her child bearing years, and as she was close to throwing Sophie out of the nest and Léo was fourteen, she didn't want any. She opened the door and invited Bill and Charlie in. 

Bill, lanky, wore jeans and a t-shirt. He’d tied his hair back and offered her a chocolate cake. Charlie, stockier and stronger like Gideon and Fabian had been, had rolled up his sleeves and exposed burns. Emmeline embraced Bill like she had last night and held Charlie at arms length. A young woman with silvery-blonde hair had came too. Emmeline didn't know her, but they spoke in French, and the girl commented on the plainness of the converted farmhouse. 

“Thank you,” said Emmeline, not sure whether to take this as a compliment or criticism. Dorian asked to seriously consider his hospital when he received an urgent owl from the hospital. She nodded, angry he dismissed her name, her heritage at the drop of a hat, but she'd at least let him think she thought it over. She banged the bannister. “Sophie, Léo! It’s eleven!” 

Minutes later, dressed in a slacks and a blouse, Sophie came down, tying her blonde hair back and slipping on her shoes. Léo stayed downstairs for logistical reasons because it was easier to get around; he stayed in what most people would’ve considered the foyer, a room Emmeline had converted in a large bedroom. Lèo hobbled in, big ears and smiles. People didn't see many reddish-brown haired French people. 

“I am not fat. This serves as cushion for whenever I fall.” Léo gave this introduction to most people he met to break the ice off his harsh, stark appearance. Fleur Delacour didn't bother to cover up her horror and disgust. Léo, reading the room, shifted his walking sticks and offered his hand to Charlie and Bill in turn. 

“Let’s go with that,” said Charlie, grinning at his brother and greeting Léo like they were old friends. Sophie said hello and hugged them both. Dorian, who had lingered behind just in case, said he had to go. He left the house. Charlie clapped his hands together, completely at ease, and winked at Sophie. “I used to pull your hair all the time. Remember the No Girls Allowed treehouse?” 

“Yes,” said Sophie, gathering dishes and cutlery. “I stole your books. Actually Papa stole from for me.” 

“Really?” Charlie scratched his chin, thinking back. “Damn, Gideon didn't play around. I was eight.” 

“Three, And very spoiled,” said Emmeline, pointing at Sophie. She frowned at Sophie when she made a face. They all followed Léo outside. “Say something. I dare you. Every time you didn't something, anything, you’d run from me go shouting ‘Papa, Papa’, and who always came to your rescue?” 

“Papa.” Sophie blushed. 

Sophie sat down sandwiched herself between Bill and Charlie. Léo sat next to Fleur, though like Charlie, he didn't seem too bent over backwards about the gorgeous girl by his side. He leaned the wooden crutches against a tree and swung his dead legs around. Fleur scooted away from Léo a little, still studying his face as they passed the food around.

“Do you know your left from your right yet?” Bill buttered a baguette slice. Sophie demonstrated, passing the test when she lifted her cousins hands in turn. Bill, grinning at her, draped an arm over her shoulder. Fleur looked angry. “You’re awesome. Christmastime was fun with you around.” 

“I remember somebody, you,” said Sophie, pointing at Bill with her fork,”playing chess with Papa and swearing girls should be more interesting. You begged him to take me back and get an exchange. You said, and I quote, ‘She’s broken, Uncle Gideon, I don't know about this one’, so I’d like to thank you for that.” 

Emmeline smacked Léo in the back of the head when he reached over and shook Bill’s hand. Where had she been whenever this went down at the of Burrow? She scooped seconds from the casserole dish and invited them to eat more. “Eat. I made enough food for a small army.” 

“She does that every Sunday,” said Léo. He smiled when Sophie conjured wine glasses and a bottle of Chateau Rieussec, a sweet wine, from Emmeline’s stash. 

“That’s mine? And you can't have any, Léo!” Emmeline snatched the bottle, seeing thIs time was as good as any. She poured six glasses, healthy measures in five and a little in the last one, and she swirled it before she handed it to Léo. “I want you to taste this, really taste it. And if I ever find your dirty hands in my wine cabinet, if I ever find you drunk, Léo, I will find you…” 

“‘…and I will kill you and/or make your life a living hell,’” intoned Léo, bored with her empty, recycled threat. He lifted the glass to Fleur and sipped it like it was nectar. Emmeline considered nectar a damn close comparison. The other glasses flew to the others when she gave her wand a casual flick. 

“What do you do?” Léo turned to Bill and Charlie. 

Fleur, either seeming to not care or forgetting she wasn't alone, turned to address  Bill. By the way they acted with each other, Emmeline guessed they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Fleur immolated what a lot of foreigners hated about the French people; she was entitled, arrogant, and had somehow gotten it in her head everyone stayed beneath her because she was far too beautiful to be in their presence. Emmeline hadn't shared words with her, but she glided around with what Gideon would've labelled as a snooty Parisian. The sun revolved around her, and Fleur expected no less. 

She spoke in the loudest whisper. “What’s wrong with his face? And his legs?” 

Léo dropped his spoon with a clang and didn't touch his food. “I’m not a monster.” 

“Zis is not true because you look like one,” said Fleur, looking him straight in the face. Unlike Emmeline’s children, who had learned English and French together, she spoke in heavily accented English. She pointed at the scales on his face. “I ‘ave seen you a school last year. Zey call you croissant because of the layers? Can't you cast a spell to mask. A mask.” 

She tacked on the suggestion as an afterthought. Léo, who took a while to warm up to strangers, retreated into his shell; Emmeline saw a light go out in his eyes. Fleur, clearly thinking she helped him, got his crutches, but Léo asked her to put them back. 

“Put them back. I can do things on my own, thanks, and I wouldn't want to afflict your pretty girl face.” Léo excused himself, thanked Bill and Charlie for coming, and shuffled back up to the house. 

Bill rounded on Fleur. Sophie started to say something, but Bill interrupted her and shot Fleur. “What hell was that? Where in the hell did you possibly learn that passes as acceptable behavior?” 

Charlie downed his glass in one and poured himself another. Fleur turned to Emmeline, who hid her emotions and brought her hands together. Sophie, horrified, got up and stared at Fleur, speechless. 

“We went to school together, in the same year,” said Sophie, her hands shaking. She seemed to remember something and took her time putting it into words. She spoke in English for her cousins’ benefit. “You bitch. You called him * Le lépreux. The Leper. You’re not invited here because you …you need to go.” 

Emmeline spoke calmly, rationally, as if she discussed a simple correction with her contract drafters. Léo had thick skin and always got back on his feet, and Emmeline had heard rumors of these stories, but kids were inherently cruel to the different. She sat there for a moment, left her wine glass untouched, and unexcused herself from the table. When she entered the kitchen, she locked the swinging door with an antique latch, and slid onto the floor before the tears came. 

There was a knock on the door. “Emmeline. Emmeline, let me in.” 

“I need a moment,” she said, wishing she’d grabbed her drink. Bill stood on the opposite side. Her voice shook. “A…a moment.” 

Bill left. He stepped off to the side, and she guessed he went into Léo’s bedroom. They left the original French doors opens, and pretty soon there was laughter. Emmeline, curious, got up and went into the bedroom. Model airplanes, a Muggle toy, flew around the place. Charlie got joined them, too, and they had levitated the planes and conducted these air raids, guiding the things with their wands. Léo sat at his desk, reeling off facts about Muggle history and cleaning an alembic and a mortar and pestle. 

“I collect these,” said Léo proudly, pointing at a few airplane models. He shook a parcel he’d received from Owl Order he hadn't recognized before; it got delivered over lunch. Spotting Emmeline, he beamed at her and ripped a note off the parcel. “Who found this?” 

Emmeline shrugged, taking a wild guess. “Every time I drag you to act as a page for the International Confederation of Wizards, you always discuss your collection with one person.” 

“Albus Dumbledore.” Léo read through the note and grabbed his crutches, ready to dash off to send an owl. 

“Léo, we have company. The professor can wait.” Emmeline placed a hand on her son’s shoulder, turned him around. er son’s shoulder, turned him around. 

"Dad would love these airplane model things." Bill flicked his wand lazily and his model did a dive. "He thinks these things stay up by pure magic! Mad, isn't it?" 

Emmeline snorted when Bill jumped on the bed after destroying Charlie’s model in midair. Léo cheered, throwing up a crutch in midair in celebration. Bill, reminding Emmeline of circa 1978, collapsed on the bed in a fit of giggles. Charlie flipped him off. 

Leaving the boys to their fun, she went back into the kitchen and gathered the dirty dishes outside as it started to rain. Sophie might have Disapparated because she was nowhere to be found. Emmeline, soaked because she’d forgotten an umbrella went back inside and saw Fleur washing the dishes the old-fashioned way with elbow grease. Not knowing what to say, Emmeline sat down at her table and helped herself to a slice of moist chocolate cake. 

“Mrs. Weasley made zat,” said Fleur, wiping her hair out of her blue eyes. She slopped soapy water down her front. 

“I didn’t know.” Emmeline took off her wet shoes, found the Chateau Rieussec and poured herself two glasses before she bothered to say a word to this girl. She forced her to speak English, for Fleur clearly only spoke it for about a year or so, and it made her feel uncomfortable. Emmeline stabbed the cake with her fork and accepted a coffee from Fleur. “I was a new widow, and I was alone and scared. I didn't … I never felt him kick.” 

She ran her index finger along the rim of the wine glass, enjoying the sound it made. “I was widowed at thirty-three, and it never crossed my mind something was wrong. Do you know why?” 

Fleur shook her head, draped the damp dishtowel on the range handle, and sat down when Emmeline conjured a clean wine glass and waved her over. She placed one foot behind the other. 

“I think I hated him,” said Emmeline, trapped in her own reflections and yanked out when Fleur said this wasn't true. “I spent years and years trying to have children, and my husband died and it happened. I didn't want it.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Fleur, twisting a napkin to ease her nerves and shredding it. “I didn't mean…” 

“Yes, yes, you did.” Emmeline recited a mantra her grandfather used to say that hit home. “Thoughts become words, and words, should we choose to voice them, shift into actions. And these actions? For good or ill, these have consequences. You should not apologize to me. I went through hell to birth to what you mark as a leper.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not.” Emmeline drummed her fingers on the table and went over to grab her wallet out of her purse. Using her fingers, she flipped back and forth between two photographs: a shot of Gideon reading a book and a picture of Léo stumbling across the same text at age seven. He’d knocked the book off a high shelf with his crutch and scuttled along like a hermit crab until the volume landed on the floor. Unable to carry it, Léo pushed it along the corridor with his crutch. “He has no idea I caught this. You don't even know him. That hurts.” 

“Madame Marceau,” said Fleur. 

“Tom Riddle was an attractive boy,” Emmeline pointed out, cutting through whatever Fleur needed to say to feel better in the moment. She dropped a name, making Fleur jump in surprise. “Lord Voldemort took my best friend from me, and if I had a choice of doing it all over again, I wouldn't change anything about Léo because he saved me. He’s extraordinary. There is do much more to the world than a face, mademoiselle, and I pity you for not seeing it.” 

Emmeline turned over her wine glass, polished off the last of her cake, and left the beautiful French girl sitting in the darkness. Emmeline kept an eye on the girl, though she kept her distance. Fleur got gracefully to her feet after a while, walked down the corridor and knocked on the open French doors leading into Léo's room. 

* French translation of "the leper".


End file.
